


The Word of the Blessed

by for_darkness_shows_the_stars



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Cults, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gen, Lots of OCs - Freeform, Pre-ACOTAR, Swearing, Unhappy Ending, but hey, but most of them don't survive, it's about mortals in Amarantha's court, so that's a given really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:01:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23664301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_darkness_shows_the_stars/pseuds/for_darkness_shows_the_stars
Summary: “What happens to the ones who do make it through the Wall?” Jurian asked, the hard panes of his face cast in flickering relief by the fire.I ground the heel of my boot into the grass. “I don’t know. They never came back once they went over. But while Amarantha ruled, creatures prowled these woods, so … I don’t think it ended well.”Twenty-five years into the reign of Queen Amarantha, three Children of the Blessed are sent as tribute over the Wall, and brought to her Majesty’s court Under the Mountain.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 8





	1. The Children of the Blessed

**Author's Note:**

> I've always been fascinated by those weird zealots, the Children of the Blessed, so ... *shrug* here's a story about them.  
> I haven't re-read the books in a while, so do tell me if I miss something, or get some detail wrong.  
> Enjoy!

**I**

**The Children of the Blessed**

Soft sounds of the Children’s bare feet rhythmically marching the frozen ground echo the forest, more ancient than even the Fae they worship.

Faye shivers, wrapped in her thin, pale blue robes, and watches her breath turn into white mist before her with morbid amusement. Her mass of silvery bracelets clink and ring, and burn like ice where they touch her skin.

All around her, other Children face a similar predicament, but if any of them are as discomforted with this situation as she is, they don’t show it. And neither does she, forcing her face into a mask of cool detachment.

Still, she silently thanks the Fae when the Great Mother, an ancient, wrinkled creature, whose tangled grey hair reaches down to her calves, stops in her tracks once they emerge into a secluded meadow.

The full moon shines brightly above them, reflecting off their jewellery.

The Great Mother doesn’t say a word, she simply sits, cross-legged, in the middle of the meadow, and all the others, Faye included, follow, forming a makeshift circle around her.

She nods regally to one of the girls, one who’d been tasked with carrying the secret texts tonight, and she, Eyla, if Faye remembers correctly, approaches the Great Mother and hands her the heavy wooden case, once brightly coloured, now weathered and chipped with age and use.

Eyla returns to her rightful place, and like all others, bows her head.

Faye is supposed to bow as well, but curiosity gets the better of her, so she observes the Great Mother from under her eyebrows. The old crone presses her palms to the damaged wood, lips moving in beat with some soundless prayer.

Faye shivers violently. It’s January, ice and snow have covered the land, yet the Children of the Blessed insist on wearing the same attires they do in the height of summer.

Finally, the Great Mother opens her pale blue eyes, and takes an ancient, yellowed book out of the case—the Word of the Blessed. She opens her mouth, and the sounds of the language of the Fae come out.

Faye doesn’t understand a word the Great Mother is preaching. No-one around her does, yet they all move in rhythm with the text. When she was younger, it confused her. Why are the Children not taught the meanings of their most sacred texts? There are some translations, of course, but those rarely ever span more than a paragraph of the Word.

Suppressing a yawn, Faye lets it go. It isn’t her place to question the Great Mother’s doctrine. The crone has, after all, been taught by the previous Head of the Children, and she by the previous, and so on, and so on, until before the Wall was built.

Hours pass, and nothing more exciting than the Great Mother accidentally mispronouncing one of the words and having to start again happens.

By the time the Word of the Blessed is closed and placed once again safely in its wooden case, Faye’s fairly certain she has hypothermia.

Now, the Great Mother nods to a boy, someone Faye’s spoken to once or twice, but can’t, for the life of her, remember his name. He steps out of their circle, visibly shivering (and she has to stifle a chuckle when she sees that, it’s nice to see that she isn’t the only one suffering), and hands the Great Mother a clay jar.

The crone presses her gnarled hands to it, and throws her head back in religious ecstasy. All around her, others are wailing a worship song, but Faye doesn’t trust her voice not to come out shivering, so she just bows her head, letting her hair fall like a curtain in front of her face, and prays no-one will notice she hasn’t joined the revelry.

When the last notes die out, the Great Mother rises the jar high above in the air.

“Friends,” says she, in a voice more suited for the language of the Fae than the Commontongue, “acolytes. Followers of the Word.”

She pauses for effect, pale blue cloak playing around her feet in the breeze.

“We perform one of our most sacred rituals today. We allow the Will of the Blessed to choose the three fortunate souls that will pass that loathsome Wall, and go into the land of milk and honey, to live in comfort and love, among the Fae.”

As one, Faye included, the Children begin to chant, ancient melodies they were taught in their cradles, and the Great Mother, high on reverence, reaches into the jar and pulls out three small, wooden plates.

Each is engraved with one name.

The chanting reaches its climax, and then violently drops.

Silence falls.

The crone takes the first wooden plate in her hand, then reads in a booming, dignified voice, “Zeehay Trever.”

One girl rises from the crowd, auburn hair swishing in the wind. “I answer the Will’s call,” she says, in a voice that’s shivering from emotion just as much as the cold. “I put my fate in the Fae’s immortal hands.”

“Come, child,” the Great Mother says, reaching out to Zeehay. Stumbling, the girl comes forward, and the Great Mother marks her brow with ash. “You are now the Guardian of the Will.”

Then, she takes the other plate, and another name is read.

“Yvanco Brooks.”

It’s the boy from earlier, the one who’d carried the jar, who responds, and Faye thinks with dark amusement how she’d never imagined she would learn his name this way.

He too, is called to the Great Mother’s side, his brow is marked as well, and he’s sent to wait with Zeehay. They are on their knees, hands clenched in the brittle yellowed grass and snow, ardent, yet silent prayers leaving their lips.

“One more name,” the Great Mother says solemnly. “Only one of you, my friends, my acolytes, will join these Guardians of the Will on their journey this month.”

Her wise, all-knowing eyes never leaving the gathered children, she all but whispers that final name.

“Faye Quinn.”

* * *

Faye had been very tiny indeed when the Red Fever came into their village. A few weeks later, Mum and Dad were both bound to their beds, burning up with fever, frantically screaming unintelligible words. The wise women of the village came, their wrought iron necklaces clinking with each step, and as one, gave the diagnosis.

 _There is nothing to be done_ , the oldest had said, and all the younger agreed.

Faye’s big sister, Rhea, who was, as far as the little Faye was concerned, the best thing that has ever happened to this world, seemed very upset, but Faye was far too small to understand what about.

Once Mum and Dad both died, and were buried in the village cemetery, Rhea took little Faye’s hand, and carried her far, far away, to the Children, who took them in.

To this day, Faye doesn’t know the name of the village she was born in. She thinks, sometimes, that if preaching ever brought her there, that she would certainly recognize it, maybe even find Mum and Dad’s graves … but Mum and Dad are equally far away … she doesn’t even remember their names, and the one time she’d finally gathered the courage to ask Rhea … she found that her sister had already run away.

She remembers hearing the elder Children gossip, call Rhea names she, at that age, was not supposed to understand. _Whore_ , and _Traitor,_ and _Non-believer-loving Filth._

The first days ~~weeks, months~~ after Rhea’s escape are a bit blurry and unreal in her memory. It feels as though it’s happened to someone else.

That’s how she feels now, all movement automatic. Get up, walk to the Great Mother, say the words, feel her sharp fingernail marking your skin with ash …

She goes through the rituals that follow with some sort of dissociation … if one asked her, she would not be able to tell you what happened for hours afterwards.

_She is going to Prythian. She is going to be a Fae lord’s wife._

Those words ring in her head all through the ceremony and the path back to their encampment.

Those are the words that ring in her head when she notices the admiring stares of other Children, recognizing her by the mark on her brow. They don’t talk to her, don’t approach her—the tradition does not allow for such a travesty—but that doesn’t stop them from staring. She feels the force of their attention prickle at her skin, and for a moment, wants nothing more than to fall into Rhea’s warm, inviting arms. But Rhea has escaped, with some non-believer boy, never to be seen again.

This is supposed to be the happiest day of Faye’s life, yet all she wants to do is to collapse into her small, cold cot, inside her small, cold tent, and weep.

The three of them, Zeehay, Yvanco, and Faye, are led into the Great Mother’s tent. She is the only one allowed to talk to them.

She is waiting patiently for them, hood off, smiling a toothless smile.

“My children,” says, she, spreading her arms. “Soon, little ones, you will live in luxury, you will rule by the side of a Fae lord or lady.”

She reclines back in her chair. “I will give you gifts that you are to present to your future spouse. That way, my dears, they will know who has sent you.”

There are three ornate boxes sitting in her lap, Faye sees now. The Great Mother’s claw-like fingers latch onto one, and she opens it to show them an ancient-looking jewelled dagger.

“What say you, children?”

“It’s beautiful,” Yvanco whispers. Some part of Faye’s brain agrees, but she still doesn’t trust herself enough to speak.

“Indeed it is,” the crone replies, and puts the boxes onto her table. “Now, tell me, dear ones. I can see you are troubled—all of you.”

…

 _So much for hiding it_ , Faye thinks, sounding hysterical, even to herself.

Fortunately, it’s Zeehay who speaks first. She looks up to the Great Mother, with those huge, amber eyes, smooth auburn hair falling down to her waist, and pleads. “What if my lord doesn’t find me handsome enough?”

For a moment, her question doesn’t register. When it does, Faye has to press her fingernails into the soft skin of her palms in order to avoid screaming. That’s what’s worrying her?! Not the impending abandonment of all they have ever known, not setting out into the unfamiliar, not doubts of the religion they’ve followed their entire lives?

She doesn’t scream out, and decides she’s quite satisfied with that. Zeehay’s idiotic question, more than anything, serves to pull both her feet back to earth.

The Great Mother gives her a gentle smile, cupping her perfectly smooth cheek. “Dear one,” she coos, “dispense these foolish doubts. The Will of the Blessed would not have chosen you if it weren’t certain that you would live a long, fulfilled life by your future spouse’s side.”

Zeehay nods. “Thank you, oh, Great One.”

“What of you, young Yvanco?” the crone implores. “Tell me your worries, so that I may relieve you of them.”

Yvanco breathes in, not-so-discreetly wringing his hands together. “I dread leaving, oh Great One,” he says. “Life in the Community is all I have ever known.”

The Great Mother nods. “I see. But you need not worry either, my dear. The Will of the Blessed is infallible. It does not make mistakes. It is not malicious … not to us, who have accepted its truths, at least. To the non-believers …well, the Will shall surely have mercy upon them, too.”

She shakes her head. “It would not choose you if it weren’t certain you would find fulfilment among our benevolent masters.”

He nods, genuine relief on his face, and mutters his thanks. Then, the Great Mother turns to Faye.

“And what of you?”

Faye pauses. Telling the crone her innermost doubts is the last thing she wants. “Nothing, oh, Great One,” she says finally. “Your wise words to my brother and my sister have dispelled all my doubts.”

There. That ought to be just enough flattery to appease her.

“I am glad,” the crone says, and puts a calloused hand to Faye’s face. “This is proof, dearest ones, of the Will’s mercy. It allowed for dear Faye here to join you in your pilgrimage, despite the disgrace wrought onto her by her sister.”

Faye grinds her teeth together and manages to stop herself from jumping at Rhea’s defence.

“Thank you, oh, Great One,” she says instead. “I will endeavour to be worthy of the Will’s choice.”

“I expected no less, Faye,” the Great Mother says, smile playing about her chapped lips. “Now, sweet ones, go to your tents and gather your belongings, then bring them here. This is will spend the night. Speak to no-one. Remember the ancient rules and traditions.”

“Yes, oh, Great One,” they say in unison, and then they’re off.

* * *

Faye doesn’t have much. None of the Children do. She rolls her sleeping mat, packs her two spare sets of robes. Other than her jewellery, which she wears at all times, there is nothing else she owns.

If the rumours are true, all she will be carrying along tomorrow at dawn, trough the Wall, is the clothes on her back, silver to attract faeries, and that jewelled knife.

She hopes they are at least given some food. The Will knows she is no huntress.

She wounds her pack over her back, tucks her bedroll under her arm, and then she walks back to the Great Mother’s tent. Zeehay joins her wordlessly about halfway there, carrying her own things.

Almost unconsciously, Faye reaches for the girl’s free hand. She’s sick and tired of the awestruck way everyone’s looking at them, and if the slight, disdainful curve of Zeehay’s lip is any clue, she feels the same.

An interesting development, Faye muses, for one who was thrown into throes of desperation because she feared she wouldn’t be beautiful enough for a Fae. Maybe the walk has done the girl some good.

When they arrive, the Great Mother directs them to leave their things on the floor. They are bathed and cleaned, their jewellery polished, their hair combed out.

By the time they are dressed in fresh robes, given packs with some food (thank the Will), and the daggers, dawn is breaking.

Their last prayers said, the three make their way towards the forest.

They are well inside when Zeehay finally decides to speak. “Are you scared?”

The question is soft and shaky, like she’s afraid to even say it. Faye understands. She stops, and reaches for the girl’s hand again.

Zeehay looks at her with wide, amber eyes that glisten with unshed tears.

“I am,” Faye admits.

Yvanco pauses as well, brow furrowed. “I am too,” he volunteers, biting his lip.

“We shouldn’t be afraid, though, should we?” Zeehay says. “The Great Mother said so.”

They all fall into silence. There is no way to follow up on that—the Great Mother’s word is just as strong as what is written in the Word of the Blessed. Suggesting that she might be wrong … unimaginable.

Yet that exactly is the conclusion Faye comes to. She doesn’t have the courage to voice it, though, and if Yvanco or Zeehay though anything similar, neither did they.

Somewhat awkwardly, they resumed their trek, letting those last words hang in the air.

They stop and camp for the night near a stream at some point. All is done in silence, as Zeehay’s last words still heavy in their minds. 

It takes them a day and a half to reach the wall. They have been given a map by the Great Mother, which would lead them directly to the hole the Children have discovered centuries ago.

It’s not hard to see the border. Faye can’t help but stare at the Wall, transfixed. A few metres in front of her, the ground is covered by pale snow, the trees’ branches are cold and barren, raising into the cloudy sky like claws. Then comes a line so precise it looks like it’s been cut with a knife, the snow abruptly stops and gives way to plush, emerald grass, the trees covered in pale pink blossoms.

Her breath catches in her throat—it’s here.

The Spring Court.

* * *

It’s beautiful.

She exchanges looks with her two companions. Wordlessly, she gives her last good-byes to the land she was born in, the land she grew up in.

She will never have the chance to see her village again, visit Mum and Dad’s graves, kiss her sister’s brow.

With a deep breath, she goes forward, trough the one-person sized hole, vibrating with some ancient power.

The warmth of the spring sun is the most beautiful thing she’d ever felt on her skin. She can hear the delicate birds singing their enchanting tones, feel the slight pounding of squirrels’ feet in the trees.

Nature has never seemed so gorgeous before. Magic doesn’t simply surround this place—it envelopes it, binds it together.

Faye can almost cry.

Something touches her shoulders lightly, and she whirls around, to see Yvanco, looking equally stunned.

This time, she doesn’t even bother to suppress a sob, as she leaps forward and embraces him.

“We made it,” she whispers, disbelieving. “We _made it._ ”

“I know,” Yvanco mutters in her hair. “By the Will, _we made it_.”

Zeehay joins them, and suddenly all three are laying in the soft grass, laughing and crying, asking in the sunlight, repeating those three, wonderful words.

_We made it._

Excitement is too much, and they decide to camp here, next to the Wall, for the night.

This time, there is no awkward silence, no sorrow. They chat animatedly about everything and anything, from food preferences to the Child they can stand the least.

There are a few moments of stunned silence when Faye picks the Great Mother for that last one, but even those are laughed off.

Faye has never felt better in her life.

How could she ever have doubted the Word? How could she ever have thought she would miss the Mortal Realm?

She _belongs_ here, she thinks, with these two, living like a feral woman in the forest.

She falls asleep, warm and content, huddled together with Zeehay and Yvanco.

* * *

She wakes to a shadow that blocks the sun. Blinks a few times, and then the shadow takes form of the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. His skin is pale porcelain, his eyes vibrant brown. His hair is brilliant red and cropped close to his scalp. Two pointed ears peek out on both sides of his head.

He looks upon her and smiles a wicked, _beautiful_ smile.

High Fae.

“Master,” Faye breathes, utterly transfixed with him. She scrambles to her knees. And bows deeply.

“Why hello, little mortal,” he greets her. “What are you doing here?”

Faye casts a look at Zeehay and Yvanco still asleep. “We have come as tribute,” she tells him.

“Tribute?” Impossibly, his smile widens, showing off too-white teeth.

“Yes Master.” She dares a look up to that beautiful face. “We have come to serve you.”

“Me?” There’s something wicked in his tone, but she can hardly care, when presented with such a gorgeous man.

“The Fae,” she clarifies. “Our benevolent Masters.”

“My, my,” he mutters. “How very interesting. Well, then little mortal. Wake your friends.”

“How do I call you, Master?” she asks.

The Fae cocks his head. “Diivam Vanserra, little mortal, third son of the High Lord of the Autumn Court.”

 _Oh, by the Will_. A High Lord’s son.

“Thank you, my lord Vanserra.”

“Come now, little ones. We mustn’t waste time.” He grins and it sends shivers down Faye’s spine. “I shall take you to meet my Queen.”


	2. Ambitions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faye and her companions travel trough the Spring Court. She comes to some surprising conclusions about herself, and new plans for the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, folks, heed the warnings. This gets bloody.

**II**

**Ambitions**

Walking side by side with Lord Vanserra is … a dream. Every time Faye looks at him, she notices some small detail she hasn’t seen before—the flecks of amber in his eyes, the fine embroidery of his waistcoat, the lean muscles hidden under his clothes that rip every time he moves, the preternatural _power_ in his every action …

Everything about him is fluid, perfect, inhuman.

He hums some ancient faerie tune, sauntering about the forest with well-practiced ease. He appears to know his destination well.

“My lord Vanserra?” Faye braves. Her voice is hoarse from disuse. “May I ask a question?”

The Fae turns, grinning like a wolf. “You’ve already asked one.” He seems to be in a very good mood. “But, little mortal, by all means, ask away.”

“You said, my lord, that you would take us to your Queen,” she begins, “but we’ve been taught all our lives that this wonderful and magical land is ruled by the seven High Lords.” Flattery alwaly works, right? It has worked with the Great Mother.

Lord Vanserra throws his head back and laughs. “You’re a clever one, aren’t you, little mortal?” he says fondly. “All right I will indulge you with a little history lesson.” A wicked grin splits his face. “That was the case for centuries, yes. But not anymore. Now we have a Queen who reigns unchallenged over the Seven. They act as the extensions of her will, rule the Courts on her behalf.”

“I see. Thank you, my lord,” Faye says, and bows her head. She is not sure how to react to this new information. On one hand, it negates all she has ever been taught. On the other … well, it’s not like it matters, really, and she is sure all will be explained in detail eventually.

The deeper into the forest they go, the better Faye can see the magic—it’s not just in the little things, like the brighter, more vibrant colours, but also the more pronounced ones—flowers that open and close their petals constantly, multi-coloured birds with sharp teeth in their beaks, strange fish swimming lazily in a pond they stop by to drink and rest.

It feels like her heart is going to burst with sheer love for this place, and she secretly hopes that whoever takes her as their wife belongs to the Spring Court.

She would gladly live out the rest of her days here.

The hours pass like a blur, and Faye doesn’t bother keeping track of them. Only when the sky grows dark, and the sun dyes the treetops golden does she realize the day is at an end. An entire day spent in the company of a Fae …

Lord Vanserra guides them to a small lake. Water is everywhere in this forest, ponds and streams and lakes and rivers.

Even in the fading light, the colour of its surface is stunning. Transfixed, Faye reaches out to touch the shimmering surface, but lightning-fast, the Fae’s hand lashes out, gripping her wrist mere inches from the water.

Slowly, dumbly, she turns her head to look at him. He is smiling, the panes of his face shadowed.

“Careful, little mortal,” he says, as if he were speaking to an unruly child. In any other circumstance, Faye would be insulted, but he’s _a Fae_ , and a High Lord’s son at that. “Wouldn’t want to lose that pretty little hand of yours, would you?”

It takes a moment for his words to register, but when they do, she quickly retreats, waving her head frantically.

“Good girl,” he coos. “Water wraiths would love one like you.”

“Water wraiths … my lord?” Yvanco asks.

“Oh, indeed,” Lord Vanserra says. “From what I hear, Tamlin can’t be bothered to keep them in check.” He smiles, and it’s all teeth. “But then again, it’s not like he ever actually cared for his lands … no, the Beast of Spring would much rather spend his days hunting than ruling. Cauldron knows he hasn’t even tried to protect his people.”

“Who is …” Zeehay starts, and Lord Vanserra interrupts.

“He’s the High Lord of Spring.” He spits on the ground. “Incompetent fucking tool.”

“But my lord …” Faye begins, “if you and him dislike each other so much—” The Fae snorts, but she presses on, “how are you allowed to wander his lands?”

“You didn’t pay much attention, did you, little mortal?” Lord Vanserra shoots back, curving an eyebrow. He turns to Zeehay. “Go collect some wood, it gets chilly here at night.”

“Yes my lord,” Zeehay says, bowing deeply, and scrambles away to do his bidding.

“Well, little ones,” Lord Vanserra continues, and Faye leans closer, “what Tamlin wants and doesn’t want is irrelevant when the Queen decides to send me to bring him a message.”

“And what was the message, my lord?” Yvanco breaths, wide-eyed.

Lord Vanserra leans back, pressing his back to a tree trunk, and his lips spread in a smile not even Faye can classify as anything other than threatening. “That his time is half up,” he says enigmatically.

Faye longs to ask more, but she doesn’t dare. They sit in silence until Zeehay returns half an hour later, carrying a stack of dry branches. Her robes are stained with dirt and torn, her hands all scraped, but the look in her eyes is one of sheer joy.

“Good little mortal,” Vanserra says, rising to his feet. He takes a few steps closer to Zeehay, and Faye is struck by how much taller than her he is.

“Thank you, my lord,” Zeehay says, shivering, gaze stubbornly pointed down to her feet.

He takes her chin into his fingers, and raises her head. Faye can see the way the rising and lowering of her chest speeds up, even the way her pupils dilate, nearly swallowing the amber around them.

Something uncomfortable wakes in Faye’s chest, but she fights it down just as he releases Zeehay, and takes one of the branches from her hands.

Once Zeehay has the wood down and placed, Vanserra smiles—just as the branch in his hand bursts into flames.

The Children scream.

“What’s the matter, little mortals?” the Fae asks, nonplussed, as he casually throws the burning branch onto the pile Zeehay had prepared. “Scared of a little magic?”

“No, sir,” Yvanco grounds out. “You just caught us off-guard, that’s all.”

It’s a lie. At least for Faye it is. She can’t help staring at the magical fire.

“That’s good,” Vanserra drawls, returning to his spot next to the tree. “Very good. It would not do well for you to be afraid of magic in Her Majesty’s court …” He smiles again. “Get some rest. We have a long way ahead of us tomorrow.”

* * *

The morning of the second day passes much in the same way as the first, but Faye can’t help but feel unease. She still stares at the Fae whenever she can, but this time, it is not his beauty that captivates her. This time, she sees a hunter’s reflexes in his graceful movements, cruelty in his eyes, bloodlust in his smile.

She tries to stamp down on those sensations, choke them out before they can take deeper root in her mind, but no matter what she does, she can’t help but notice more and more small details.

There’s a sword strapped to his back, and a pair of matching daggers on his belt. He’s armed to the teeth. How come she has not noticed that before?

It’s around noon when they stop again, this time so Lord Vanserra can explain the next step.

“There’s this thing we call doors,” he drawls, casually leaning onto a tree, basking in the shade it provides. “They are used for fast travel throughout Pyrthian. Well,” he amends, making a face, “except the Night, but it’s not like anyone would actually _want_ to go there anyway, so it doesn’t really matter.” He shrugs. “The door from Spring to the Queen’s court is about a day away. Get some rest or something. I don’t know how well mortals take to exertion.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Faye says. Suddenly, it feels like all her former suspicion was for naught—after all, he seems to worry about their well-being! She lowers herself to the ground, and massages her aching feet.

Yvanco sits next to her, screwing up his face as he tries to detangle a leaf from his hair. “Where is Zeehay gone?” he whispers to her.

Faye shrugs, wondering what she could do about the blisters that have started forming on the soles of her feet.

“The boy’s right,” Lord Vanserra speaks, brow furrowed. Fae hearing. Right. “Where is your little mortal friend?”

Faye looks up. “I do not know, Master. She was here just a minute ago.”

“ _Damn_ ,” Lord Vanserra growls under his breath, startling her, and raises his head, nostrils widening as he sniffs at the air. “ _Fuck.”_

Faye can pinpoint the exact moment at which his eyes widen, and he lets out an inhuman growl. He leaps to his feet in and instant, and then he is stalking away, following something only he can feel. Faye and Yvanco exchange confused looks, and then she speeds up to follow the Fae, leaving her confused friend behind.

Faye is running through the bushes and foliage when her foot gets stuck on a tree root, and she stumbles, falling on her stomach. Hot pain sears trough her body, black spots appearing in her vision.

She blinks to clear her vision, once, twice, three times, and finds herself staring at something her brain can’t quite comprehend at first. It’s golden-brown, and delicate and …

A scream builds up in her throat as she stumbles away, pain forgotten, unimportant, but she stifles it.

She’s staring at a severed human hand, perched amidst a pool of red. The cut is jagged, flesh torn and white bone broken.

A silver bracelet, albeit marred with blood, still hangs off the wrist.

With some sort of morbid fascination, Faye reaches out with a shivering hand to touch it. The dead skin is still warm.

She looks up. There’s a trail of blood leading from the hand. She feels … removed somehow, from her body, even as she gingerly picks the appendage up with a hysterical thought _Zeehay will need this_ , and follows the trail.

There are other things she finds along the way … bits and pieces, some she doesn’t recognize, and some she does. Somewhere half-way there, her mind registers that picking up the parts is useless, so she stops, but doesn’t let go of the things she’s already taken.

She finds Lord Vanserra standing above the last missing bit—the head, looking up with carved-out eyes and slackened jaw, auburn hair spread out around it like some sick and twisted halo. Blood oozes out of her empty eye sockets like scarlet tears.

“What happened to her?” she finds herself asking, still unnervingly calm.

“How the fuck would I know?” Vanserra snaps irritably.

Strangely nonplussed by his answer, she spoke again. “Why didn’t we hear any screams? Surely she wasn’t silent as they ripped her apart.” Somewhere in the back of her head, she recognizes what she’s just seen, just _said._ The thought doesn’t go anywhere further than that.

“Am I expected to know every fucking beast that prowls these woods, and how exactly they hunt? That’s Tamlin’s fucking job, and just because he insists on holing up in his manor and brooding about things he can’t do anything about instead of taking care of his lands doesn’t mean I fucking should.”

“I …” Faye bows her head. “Forgive me, Master. I meant no disrespect.”

Vanserra turns, running a critical eye over her, pausing at the gory bits still clenched tightly in her hands, the blood soaking her clothes. He curves his brow and gave her a lazy smile.

“Nothing fazes you, eh, little mortal?” he drawls. “You’ve got more iron than I originally thought.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“It wasn’t praise,” Vanserra says coldly. “Just an observation.” He cocks his head. “Hold onto your iron, little mortal. You’re going to need it where you’re going.”

That, of course, is only to be expected. Fae lands were no place for the weak of heart, and even though he claims it isn’t a compliment, Faye still keeps his words close to heart.

She looks down upon the body parts in her arms, then back at Vanserra, perfect as ever, not a hair out of place despite the horror around him.

She drops the parts.

“Good girl,” the Fae purrs, and snaps his fingers.

At first, Faye doesn’t notice anything different, but when she looks down, her robes are clean and mended, like the day she’d put first them on, her jewellery is polished to a shine, and even her hair has gone smooth and glossy.

For the first time in her life, she feels beautiful, bathed in magic and sun like this.

“A gift,” Vanserra says. “For being so very entertaining.”

Faye bows her head, but doesn’t attempt to hide the smile that’s spread over her features. “I thank you, Master.”

* * *

They walk back to the meadow side by side, heads held high.

“Master!” Yvanco says when he sees them. “Where … where is Zeehay?”

“Dead,” Vanserra replies distantly, already strolling towards the possessions he’s left there.

“What?!” Yvanco bellows, and Faye finds herself irritated. Who is he to speak to a High Lord’s son that way? Mortal and immortal, the distinction is clear.

Vanserra completely ignores him. “We better go. No guarantee those beasts won’t return.”

“Faye,” Yvanco whispers, gripping her forearm. “What happened? Why … why is Zeehay dead?”

Faye stops, and turns to look at Yvanco. He pales in reaction to whatever he sees in her expression.

“Because she wasn’t strong enough,” Faye says softly, and yanks her forearm out of his limp grip.

“Let’s go,” Vanserra orders, and doesn’t stop to see if they will follow. He knows they will, and Faye sees him in a new light again.

Not the perfect, infallible Fae.

Not a cruel monster.

No … he’s something else. Ancient and ruthless and beautiful, hardened by the centuries he’s lived, certain in his position.

She’s not in awe. She’s not scared.

She’s envious.

She _wants_ that, to be so great and beautiful and revered.

Faye reaches into her pack and takes out the box the Great Mother had given her. She has no desire to spend the rest of her life as a Fae’s pet bride.

The lid comes open instantly, and she watches the jewelled knife with hungry eyes. It’s beautiful, yes, but it’s also a weapon.

And Faye is meant to be more than a doe-eyed follower.

Dark satisfaction spreads in her heart as she takes the knife’s cold handle and straps it to her belt. Fuck the Great Mother. Fuck the Word of the Blessed. Fuck the Children’s teachings.

Fuck anyone who dares to stand between her and her destiny.

_You’ve got more iron than I’ve originally thought._

She smiles.

* * *

That evening, they camp near the edge of a stream.

Yvanco has been sent to fetch some wood for the fire today, and Faye faintly wonders if it is some sign of Vanserra’s favour for her. She could certainly use that.

Vanserra himself is lounging in the grass, hands folded behind his head. Like he hasn’t witnessed a bloody murder today. Though Faye supposes she can’t judge. _She_ is leaning on a tree, playing with the dagger she had claimed as her own.

It truly is a beautiful thing. She amuses herself by watching the firelight glint off its polished surface and reflect off the precious stones embedded in the hilt.

Yvanco’s return is marked by the sharp inhale, and the sound of wood clattering down.

Faye snaps her head in his direction, and finds him staring at her, accusation in his eyes. She raises her chin, curving her lip in a near-growl. Maybe some of Vanserra’s habits have passed onto her.

“Is there any particular reason,” the Fae in question drawls, propped on his elbows, “that you’ve dropped that wood, boy?”

Yvanco’s attention shifts from Faye to the Fae lord, and he bows his head in shame. “It’s Faye, Master,” he accuses.

“Oh?” Vanserra says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “And what has she done?”

“It’s the dagger!” Yvanco bellows. “She … she is disrespecting it!”

Vanserra turns to her. “That’s a nice toothpick, little mortal. Where did you get it?”

“It’s mine now,” Faye all but growls.

“It can’t be yours! That’s … that’s theft!”

Faye leaps to her feet and marches a few steps closer to Yvanco, brandishing the blade. “Oh yeah? And who, pray tell, have I stolen it from?”

Yvanco’s eyes drift to the glinting edge of the dagger. “You know,” he says, softly.

“I have no desire to be a pet wife with no power of my own,” she hisses. “And frankly, I do not see why I should risk my life here by walking around unarmed when there is a perfectly fine weapon at my disposal.”

“It is not your weapon to use!” Yvanco roars, with a ferocity she would not have thought him capable of. “The Great Mother was _wrong_. We should never have trusted you after your sister betrayed us.”

Faye feels her lips slowly peeling from her teeth. “And here I thought the Great Mother was infallible!” she snarls. “Don’t fucking bring my sister into this. She had the guts to say _fuck you_ to that thrice-damned crone.”

“You forget your place,” he spits. “You act like you’re …”

“What?” Faye breathed. “What do I act like?”

He straightens, and looks her with pure loathing. “You act like you deserve the world based on nothing but being yourself. We’ve been here for two days, and you’ve already forgotten that you’re but a mortal.”

Ah. So that’s what’s bothering him.

Faye raises her chin, and lets a grin split her face.

The she turns, back to Vanserra, who gives her an enigmatic look. Let Yvanco take that as he wishes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just figured this was totally inspired by the literary era of late realism ... the moral downfall of the main character ... the vivid descriptions of gory stuff. Ah yes, look at me, comparing my shitty writing to actual novelists ...  
> Anyway, stay tuned for the next chapter, when we finally meet Amarantha ... I think. That was actually supposed to happen here, but it kind of got away.


	3. In the Hall of the Mountain Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, some canon characters!!!

**III**

**In the Hall of the Mountain Queen**

The doors turn out to be no more than a deep, creepy, black cave.

“Fucking _finally_ ,” Faye hears Vanserra mutter. “You humans are quite unbearable to travel with.”

“What do you mean?” she demands.

“Ah, if it isn’t my favourite little mortal,” Vanserra sneers, turning from the doors to face her.

Faye smiles sardonically. “You are currently in the company of only _two_ little mortals,” she says. “But still, I’ll take the compliment.”

“How kind of you,” Vanserra says, rolling his eyes. “Oh well, no time to waste. I’ve spent too long in this Cauldron-damned forest as it is.”

She looks to the dark, awaiting jaws of the cave. “I hope you mean to give us some light while we are inside,” she says. “I don’t know how well your Fae eyes serve you in the darkness, but I can tell you right away that I only see black.”

“You have grown impertinent,” Vanserra notes, with a fond smile. “It is almost … cute.”

Her ego rallies at being called _cute_ , but it is of no consequence right now. She chooses not to answer.

Seeing how he shall not have the pleasure of seeing her reaction to the taunt, Vanserra sighs, and nods. “Yes, I will give you fire, little mortal. Consider it a gift.”

“I thank you,” she says. “Are you this charming with all your mortal girls?”

“Oh, no,” Vanserra says, winking. “You’re special.”

He raises a hand, and it bursts into flames. Their light casts funny shapes onto the rough, jagged walls of the cave.

“Lucky me,” Faye murmurs, and follows after him.

And so they enter. The place is damp and unwelcoming, to say the least, and Faye’s fingers soon become slick with sweat where they are gripping the hilt of the dagger that hangs from her belt.

Vanserra goes first, being the only one who knows the path. Faye follows at a respectful distance, meanwhile, Yvanco trudges after them.

Or so she thinks, because some quarter of an hour into the tunnel, the boy grabs her elbow, and hisses into her ear, “What the hell do you think you are doing?”

Faye’s fingers itch to slide the dagger out of its sheath and put it to the callow boy’s neck, slamming him against the wall. But she is realistic—Yvanco is taller than her, and on a bigger scale, and the only experience with a dagger that she has involved cutting bread into slices.

And even if she is fairly certain that if it came to a fight, Vanserra would be aiding _her_ , there is also the looming possibility that he would just sit back and enjoy the show.

There is a certain bloodlust to him that she does not understand, and nor is she eager to taunt it.

“Whatever do you mean?” she asks Yvanco, pouring as much sweetness in her voice as she can manage—that’s how her sister had done it in those first few years with the Children.

“You are outright … _flirting_ with him!” Yvanco snaps. “Have you no shame? We are meant to keep our chastity for our future spouses. No-one is going to want _spoiled goods_ , so stop acting like a slut!”

 _Slut?_ Oh, that’s a good one. “I thought our last _discussion_ made it clear that I had no interest in a spouse. That I wished to break through in Prythian on my own merits?”

He looks at her, and in the darkness, she cannot make out his exact expression. Briefly, she recalls the way he had looked at her last night—with hatred to devour the sun reflecting in his eyes.

Is that his expression now, too? How unfortunate.

“At least act with _some_ decorum,” he growls. “As much as I hate it, your behaviour here reflects upon the Great Mother, and all the Children back in the Mortal Realm. And it’s reflecting _poorly_.”

“Oh, for gods’ sake,” she snaps, “you’re making it sound like I have let the man bend me over a log and fuck me senseless!

“Perhaps, if you take a step off that fucking pedestal you have put yourself on, you would see what and who I mean to become.”

She smiles, even though she knows he won’t be able to see it. “It’s a shame, really. You could have been great with me … but as it is, I am less and less inclined to allow you in.”

“What are you talking about?” Yvanco demands.

“You’ll see,” Faye promises, and tears her forearm out of his grasp. “You will all see.”

She looks at Vanserra, watching the display with a strange expression on his fire-lit face.

“Quite done, little mortal?” he asks. “Don’t scare your friend too much, he would make a poor showing before the Queen with a wet stain on that little blue dress.”

“All done,” Faye replies. “And I should hope not. There is nothing I wish more than to please the Queen. And I am certain Yvanco agrees … is that not so, Yvanco?”

“Of course,” the boy says, with much less conviction than Faye. “A faerie queen embodies all … _we …_ worship.” He looks physically ill to include Faye in that _we_ , and she is sure that Vanserra has noticed.

“That is very good to hear,” the Fae says, with a wicked smile that splits his face, “since we have arrived.”

With elegance becoming a faerie, he whirls away, revealing a small crack in the stone wall, and a roughly-hewn, but wide hallway beyond.

“Ladies first,” he says.

Yvanco looks horrified—proper manners, everything they have been taught, really, would demand that a Fae, especially _a High Lord’s son,_ goes first.

But Faye will not allow herself to be guided or limited by those senseless rules any more.

She flashes the Fae a smile, and somehow manages to squeeze her body through the tight crack.

Vanserra and Yvanco follow.

“This way,” Vanserra says. “Stick close to me. Mortals are not … usual here.”

He grips Yvanco’s forearm, and all but drags him forward, to where Faye is standing. She fully expects to be equally manhandled, but Vanserra’s palm easily lands on her shoulder, and guides her in the right direction.

* * *

Walking the halls that become more and more regular and opulent the deeper in they go, Faye contemplates her conversation with Yvanco. She supposes that her behaviour _could_ have been interpreted as flirting, even though that was not her intention.

It’s most certainly good to be reminded that it is one of the many tools at her disposal.

She hears the sounds first—incessant grumbling and yelling and whatnot. The sounds of hundreds of very much non-human bodies crowding in a space too tight for them.

Then, she sees the carved stone doors—so huge she feels her meagre mortal mind cannot comprehend them. They slide open soundlessly to reveal a massive chamber carved of pale stone.

And at the chamber’s opposite end, stands a dais, upon the dais, there is a throne, and upon the throne, sits a woman.

The Queen’s hair is, perhaps, her most defining feature. Soft golden-red locks fall about her face and down her shoulders like a cascading waterfall. A pair of dark eyes sit on her face, standing out against her pallid skin and deep red lips.

She is dressed in a gown sewn of hundreds of snow-white feathers, and a plunging neckline that makes even Faye blush. A golden crown gleams atop her head.

She is playing with something thin and white that hangs off the thin, delicate golden chain wound about her neck.

“Your Majesty,” Vanserra breathes, falling to his knees, Yvanco and Faye following him easily.

“Let’s see,” the Queen sneers. Her accent is different from Vanserra’s—exotic. If Faye did not know better, she would think the queen to be a foreigner. “Red hair, and tasteless clothes … you must be one of Beron’s brats.”

Vanserra tightened his jaw a bit. “I have a gift for Your Majesty,” he said, rising to his feet. “Two, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh?” the queen says, curving one fine brow. “And these two mortals wouldn’t happen to be it? I could smell them from the other end of the hall!”

A thunderous laugh breaks through the courtiers, but Faye can’t help the feeling of it be fake, much like she can’t help the feeling of something being very, very wrong here.

“I found them wandering the Spring Court woods, Majesty,” Vanserra continues.

“Ah, the Spring Court!” the Queen exclaims, leaning back in her black throne. “And how is my dear Tamlin faring? You’re the one I sent to deliver him the message, are you not?”

“I am, Majesty,” Vanserra confirms. “I present these two mortals as a gift, for you to do with as you please.”

The Queen purses her lips. “It’s cute that we are pretending I wouldn’t do with them as I please with or without your permission, Vanserra. But I like this game, let’s continue playing it, shall we?”

“Your wish is my command, Majesty.”

“Good, good,” the Queen says, clapping her hands. “Let me see them. Come closer.”

Raising her chin high up, Faye obeys.

“My Queen.”

“Aaaaw,” she coos. “Already trained, I see. Yes, you’re much prettier than the other one. But still small. Like a bird.”

“Thank you, Majesty,” Faye says. This was a good start. “It is my only wish to serve in your court.”

 _This_ catches the Queen off-guard. Her dark eyes narrow.

“Serve in my court?” she purrs. “How exactly do you intend to do that, little bird?”

 _Another endearment, who would have thought_.

“In any way Your Majesty deems proper,” Faye says. “I have been trained since young age to one day serve the Fae … and I see no Fae more worthy of my service.”

The Queen gains a strange gleam in her eyes. “Yes … we do need to work on your flattery, it’s dreadful. So, little bird, you wish to become a courtier here, with all the rights and privileges of a faerie.”

“My only wish is to serve,” Faye says, keeping her head down.

“And what are you willing to do, to witness, to fulfil that wish?”

Faye looks up, meeting the Queen’s gaze with that steel Vanserra had so complimented. “Anything.”

“All right then, little bird,” the Queen says. “I will permit you to stay. I must say, I had not expected this—but it does present certain … possibilities.” Her dark red lips spread into a vulture-like smile. “What is your name, little bird?”

A deep breath. “They call me Faye Quinn, Majesty.”

The Queen leans back, grasping her necklace again—it’s not a medallion that dangles from it, Faye realizes, but a finger bone, smooth from age.

“No … that will not do. That will not do at all.”

“What do you mean, my Queen?”

“Faye Quinn.” She says it like it is the name of some revolting creature, and not a woman she has accepted to be her courtier. “That is a mortal name, little bird. You need to cast it away, now that you are here.” She seems to consider. “I shall call you … Cassiopeia,” the Queen declares. “Yes, I quite like that.”

Faye— _Cassiopeia_ bows. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

The Queen smiles, and it sends chills down Cassiopeia’s spine. “Come sit at my feet, little bird. You are to take part in tonight’s festivities—I shall have someone ready you a bedchamber and find you some clothes … yes, this shall be a most interesting experiment.”

She moves her feathery skirts, and Cassiopeia sits down, on the cold stone floor. The gazes of everyone in the room prickle at her—High Fae and faerie alike, all dressed up in their finery. Some even wear carnival masks over their faces.

“And now … for the boy,” the Queen says, her voice noticeably less warm than it had been a mere second before. “Tell me, child, what do you want from me?”

Yvanco falls to his knees. “I am an acolyte of the Children of the Blessed, the follower of the Word.” He takes out the famed wooden box out of his pack and presents it to the Queen, raising the lid so she can see the jewelled knife inside.

She does not seem impressed.

“I present this gift to whichever of your courtiers would take me as a husband.”

The Queen frowns in confusion. Some of her courtiers even laugh.

But Yvanco is not deterred.

“Tell me, Cassiopeia, my little bird,” the Queen says, turning so that a lock of her auburn hair falls into her eyes, and she swipes at it with one hand—there is a massive ring on one of her fingers, but instead of a roco or a jewel, there is a restless, living eyeball in it. Cassiopeia shivers.

“What could he possibly mean?” the Queen continues, oblivious, or uncaring, perhaps, to her distress. “I deduce from your similar assembles that you came here together.”

Cassiopeia steels herself before answering. “We both—I formerly, that is, as my only loyalty is to you now, belong to a cult of Fae-worshipping mortals known as the Children of the Blessed.” She pauses. “We were sent over the wall … as tributes. A bride and a groom to a Fae lord or lady. But I, once I learned of your existence from Lord Vanserra, decided that my fate lays with you, as is only right. I should like nothim more than to serve the great faerie queen. Yvanco, on the other hand, stayed true to the teachings of the Children.”

“I see,” the Queen purred. “Thank you for clarifying that. And your flattery improves, my dear.

“So … Yvanco.” The name sounded foul on her lips. “You want to … marry one of my people.”

“That is correct, Your Majesty … I have been trained my whole life for this.”

The Queen scoffs. “That could not have been a very long life, now, could it? How old are you?”

“Sixteen,”Yvanco answers. “We are both sixteen.”

“How very … interesting,” the Queen says, cocking her head. “Marry one of my people. And tell me, _boy_ , what makes you presume to be worthy of a faerie?”

He starts, eyes darting to Cassiopeia. “I only—”

“Gah!” the Queen growls. “You disgust me. You thought what? To live comfortably for the rest of your despicably short life at the expense of one of my courtiers?”

Panic enters Yvanco’s eyes. “I never meant—”

“Spare me,” she growls. “This is most pathetic.”

Silently, Cassiopeia agrees. Yvanco is a pitiful sight, kneeling down on the scarlet floor, eyes wide and tearful, dreams shattered.

He should have listened to her—of course he should have.

“You are in luck,” the Queen continued, “in that I already have entertainment prepared for tonight … but tomorrow.” She chuckled. “You … Yvanco, was it? Never mind. You and I shall get much better acquainted.”

Cassiopeia looks up, and sees a pair of massive, horned, red-skinned faeries. “Take him away,” the faerie queen commands softly.

The faeries nod. Each grabs one Yvanco’s forearm, forcefully tearing away the wooden box that is clenched in his fingers, and drag him away.

They should not have bothered, Cassiopeia thinks, observing the empty look on the boy’s face. A broken man.

The wooden box rises of its own volition, directly into the Queen’s lap. She extracts the knife, and observes the way the light of the jewelled chandeliers reflects in its gems.

“You have one like this, do you not, little bird?”

“I do Majesty,” Cassiopeia replies.

“Well, now you have two. Do you know how to use them?”

Carefully, Cassiopeia takes the revered blade from the Queen’s white hand, and answers, softly, but viciously, “Not yet.”


	4. Reborn through Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I feel I should warn y'all ... there's torture, even though it's not really so graphic, and a death, which is.

**IV**

**Reborn through Blood**

The Queen is staring at her, dark eyes unreadable, a predatory smile curving her red lips—red like blood, Cassiopeia can see now.

“Good answer, little bird,” she purrs. “I shall have someone teach you. But be warned—” she grips Cassiopeia’s chin, claw-like nails digging into her soft skin, “—should you disappoint me, or Cauldron forbid _, betray_ me …” She smiles, and it’s the most terrifying thing Cassiopeia has ever seen. “I will make you wish you were dead … and then some.”

Cassiopeia shivers, fighting the urge to flinch at the pain inflicted upon her by the Queen’s iron grip. She resists it.

“Should I fail or betray you, Your Majesty,” she says, “I shall welcome whatever punishment you deem fit.”

The Queen’s full lips purse. “That was the right answer, little bird.” She releases her chin. “I compliment you Vanserra,” she says, snatching a goblet of sparkling red liquid from a nearby server. “You brought me a … most interesting present.”

Vanserra bows. “All I do is to serve you, my Queen.”

She throws her head back and laughs, without mirth. “Careful, or your little gift shall soon surpass you in the art of flattery.”

He flushes, made all the more prominent by the pale colour of his skin, but, to his credit, keeps his composure. He doesn’t say anything, though, but then again, what is there to say?

The Queen sneers, seeing there shall be no more entertainment to be gleaned from tormenting him, so she dismisses him with a casual wave of her hand. The brown eye in her ring swirls.

Cassiopeia has the uneasy feeling that it _sees_ , though _how_ , she cannot imagine.

“See that, little bird,” the Queen says, leaning back in her dark throne and taking a sip out of her goblet. “That’s how it’s done.”

“What is done, Majesty?” Cassiopeia asks, careful to keep the persona of the wide-eyed, innocent mortal girl tight.

“Fun,” the Queen purrs, and runs her tongue over her pearly white teeth. “Few things are more entertaining than seeing all those high and mighty men squirm under your gaze … yes. You should do well to remember that.”

Cassiopeia looks down, to her hands. They aren’t filthy with dirt and blood, like they had been before Vanserra had cleaned her up using magic. She then casts her gaze to the Queen’s—and is startled.

And she realizes one thing she hadn’t before—despite the crown on her head, despite the jewellery, despite the fine gown … she is a warrior. The muscles on her bare arms and back are sculpted and developed, her hands are calloused from handling swords and daggers.

“I’m afraid, Majesty,” she speaks, “that I do not possess your ability to make men squirm. I lack the strength and the power.”

“Yes …” the Queen drawls, dark eyes fixed on Cassiopeia. “You are a weak little mortal, after all. I wonder …” she sips from her goblet again, and this time, a trickle of scarlet wine drips from the corner of her lips down to her chin. Cassiopeia can’t help but be reminded of blood.

“I wonder if I can make something more of you.”

She shivers. “I shall be whatever my Queen wants me to be.”

The High Fae smiles—just a slight quirk of her lips. “I wonder if your crawling submission will ever lose its charm, little bird … I wonder.”

Just like Vanserra before, her, Cassiopeia knows there is nothing she can really say to that.

* * *

She doesn’t know how long she spends sitting at the foot of the throne, with no other entertainment save watching the faeries revel, until the Queen clears her throat and leaps to her feet with all the grace of a fox.

Actually, with her glossy red hair, that might not be far from the truth.

Silence falls over the faeries, who now look upon their ruler with expressions ranging from fright to excitement. It’s terrifying in a way Cassiopeia doesn’t fully understand.

She doesn’t address them, doesn’t call them _my people_ , or _my courtiers_ , or anything. It surprises Cassiopeia—not that she actually knows how these things work. She has spent her entire life moving from one village to another, preaching the Word.

She watches the Queen smile that predator’s smile, playing with the bone that hangs from her neck. “Bring out the entertainment,” she says softly.

A roar goes through the crowd, and Cassiopeia watches in shock as the red-skinned guards appear, the crowd parting for their arrival, escorting an emaciated faerie between them.

He wears no clothes other than a loincloth around his hips, and the sight of that _would_ make Cassiopeia blush, were there not other, more urgent things to capture her attention. The prisoner’s skin is a deep shade of blue, marred with dark purple blood that leaks out of his various lacerations and scrapes. He has wings, too—thin and moth-like, they hang miserably down his back. She can count his every rib.

Involuntarily, she shivers.

The man is thrown on the ground, before the Queen’s feet. He moans in pain—but the sound is ragged and broken, as if his throat is far too damaged for it … from screaming, maybe.

“You’ve begun without me?” the Queen says, sounding _pouty_ of all things. “Somebody! Explain!” She throws the golden goblet down. The scarlet liquid spills on the stone floors. The _clank_ sound mad when the gold hits the marble is echoes loudly in the suddenly-silent room.

Cassiopeia looks in disbelief as the High Queen of Prythian throws what can only be described as a temper tantrum.

The red-skinned guards exchange a look. “T’was Norn, ma’am,” one said, a desperate note to his voice.

“Who the fuck is No—oh, never mind.” The Queen is staring at the two guards with undisguised rage. “Have that _Norn_ locked up,” she orders. “But he is not to be harmed—and should _this_ instruction be disobeyed, this entire gods-damned _mountain_ will answer to _me._ ”

At first, Cassiopeia thinks it’s just her—a weak, spineless mortal—but no … _all_ of them are terrified, the High Fae and the faeries, High Lords and servants.

All of them shiver before the High Queen.

Gods …

The Queen lowers herself back to her throne. There is a defiant tilt to her chin now, something regal in her countenance. She had never looked more like a queen.

“Well,” she says, softly but not in any way gently. “What are you waiting for?”

The two red-skinned guards shift. A strange sort of contraption, resembling a table on wheels, with straps of worn leather protruding from the flat, rough surface of the wood on strategic locations is dragged before them. The man, whimpering like a kicked puppy, is strapped onto it, the leather tied around his wrists, ankles, hips, and brow.

“You’d think it’d be wiser to have them tied by the neck,” the Queen comments, quietly enough so that Cassiopeia can tell it’s meant only for her. “You wouldn’t be wrong, per se,” she continues. “We used to do that in Hybern. But then some bright soul realized that they can use the strap around their neck to strangle themselves and rid us of all the fun.”

“I see,” Cassiopeia whispers.

“Wait!” the Queen announces. When she speaks again, there’s a cruel glimmer in her dark eyes. “I wish to have the High Lords by my side … come now, my darlings, don’t be shy.”

Cassiopeia watches in disbelief as six High Fae emerge from the crowd. They are _different_ , somehow. She cannot pinpoint what exactly makes them so, just … just that they are.

They part into two groups of three, and come to stand at the either side of the Queen’s throne.

“There,” the Queen says, voluptuous red lips stretching into a smile. “Cassiopeia, my little bird?”

Breath catches in Cassiopeia’s chest. “Yes, my Queen?”

“I wish to introduce you to my darling High Lords,” the Queen says. “Or, better yet, I wish to introduce my little pet to you darlings,” she tells the six.

She nudges Cassiopeia with her foot. “Well, little bird, introduce yourself.” Her dignity roars at being treated like a dog, but she swallows the humiliation, and rises to her feet.

She looks every High Lord in the eyes—black, and turquoise, and blue, and brown, and gold, and violet. “I am Cassiopeia,” she says. There are no titles to add to the name, not yet anyway. But it doesn’t matter. She will make that name into a title unto itself.

Their stony faces don’t so much as twitch.

“Well done, little bird,” the Queen purrs. “Well. Here we’ve got … Beron, Tarquin, Kallias, Thesan, Helion, Rhysand.”

“It’s an honour, my lords,” Cassiopeia says. She doesn’t bow, though, nor does she lower her gaze. Not even her tone indicates submission of any kind. She will not _be_ submissive, not to them, not to any faerie.

Except the Queen, she supposes.

“Well then, boys,” the Queen says. The brown-haired, pale skinned one, wearing shades of crimson and gold, grimaces. Cassiopeia is no expert at Fae biology, but she is fairly certain the man is older than the Queen, and probably doesn’t appreciate being called _boy._ “Where are your manners? What do we say, when someone so nicely introduces themselves, eh? Let’s see … Tarquin, sweetie?”

Tarquin is beautiful, with crystal blue eyes, long silver-white hair and ebony skin, dressed in wide, billowing clothes of turquoise and gold. A circlet of seashells sits atop his head. “The honour is ours, lady Cassiopeia,” he says, bowing at the waist. A sign of respect, not deference.

“Well done!” The Queen claps her hands. “Shall we go on?”

She doesn’t wait for the answer before she directs the full power of her gaze to the poor shivering faerie strapped on the wooden table.

“Begin!” she orders in a high, dignified voice.

And so, they do. The woman who steps out of the crowd is a lesser faerie, with swamp-green skin and ink-black hair. An assortment of weapons and other sharp-looking things is strapped to her person.

She leans over the strapped faerie, whispers something in his pointed ear … and then she makes him scream. For hours and hours on end, until he coughs out droplets of crimson, until his body is nothing more than a ravaged plane of pink flesh, scarlet blood, and strips of blue skin.

The man draws his last, ragged and painful, breath, and then his limbs fall, relaxed, unseeing eyes staring emptily at the ceiling.

Cassiopeia … she is numb.

The Queen isn’t.

“Why is he dead already?” she demands, jumping to her feet, at the brink of yet another temper tantrum, it seems. “You!” She points a beringed finger at the green-skinned woman. “Explain! Then spit hasn’t even been brought out yet!”

The green-skinned faerie seems terrified, her multi-coloured eyes are wide, her clawed hands raised up. “I … I don’t understand it myself, Majesty, I was very careful …”

“Gah!” the Queen sits back down, crossing her arms over her chest. “Fine. Take him away. See, little bird? You just can’t find good help these days.”

The blue-skinned faerie is dragged away by the red guards, and the party goes on much the same way as it did before, only this time, Cassiopeia cannot relax, with six High Lords looming above her.

Finally, hours later, the Queen sends the crowd away, and the throne room is left empty, save her and Cassiopeia.

“Now, little bird, I’ve got for you …” she gets up, and strides down from the dais, bidding Cassiopeia to follow, “a rite of passage, let us call it that, shall we?”

The feathery dress trails after her as she walks.

Cassiopeia’s limbs are numb after all those hours spent sitting in that uncomfortable position.

“What sort of rite, Your Majesty?”

The Queen’s dark lips curve. “Wait for it … now.”

In rhythm with her words, the doors blast open, and the red guards enter, trailing yet another man between them, this time a Fae.

“’ere’s Norn, ma’am,” one guard says, and Cassiopeia understands. It’s the man who’d started with that blue-skinned faerie without the Queen’s permission … and that’s probably the reason the faerie died so soon.

“Excellent,” the Queen purrs. Out of nowhere, she summons a knife—except it’s not like the jewelled daggers that hang at Cassiopeia’s belt. The blade is made of polished wood.

Ash wood.

“Here, little bird. Prove to me your devotion.”

With that, she presses the ash dagger into Cassiopeia’s awaiting hand.

Cassiopeia turns to the Fae. His mouth is covered by a leather muzzle of some sort, but his eyes tell her enough—he’s pleading.

She doesn’t care—why should she? _You’ve got more iron than I originally thought_.

She raises the knife—it sits awkwardly in her palm, but she dismisses that as inexperience—and brings it down on Norn’s chest.

The sharp wood easily cuts through fabric, skin and organ.

She drops the handle—and watches as Norn stumbles to the ground. He twitches, eyes wide and disbelieving, while blood pools all around him.

His death is nothing spectacular—he jerks and jerks, until he simply stops.

Cassiopeia is looking at him … and she feels nothing.

The Queen’s hands comes to rest on her shoulder—she hadn’t realized up until now how much taller she is than Cassiopeia.

She pinches Cassiopeia’s cheek, her grin entirely too cheerful for what had just happened. “Aren’t you an adorable little psychopath, eh, my little bird?”

She runs her tongue over her lips, and for a moment, Cassiopeia things she might just turn into a wild lioness and feast on what’s left of Norn—but the Queen just similes again.

 _“Very_ well done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man ... I live for Amarantha using endearments on people who really, really don't like her.


End file.
